


Obligation

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Power isn't always strength</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obligation

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [](http://rach74.livejournal.com/profile)[**rach74**](http://rach74.livejournal.com/)'s ficlet [Knowledge](http://www.hornblowerfic.com/viewstory.php?sid=139). Thanks to [](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/)**nolivingman** for beta duty.
> 
> Originally posted 6-22-07

It is rough this time, where normally it is simply rushed, but there is something more in it, something desperate. Perhaps that is why Hornblower’s hands dig into his hips, leaving impressions that will bruise and pulse with the heat of blood long after they’ve parted. Hornblower pushes deeper, whispering apologies and assurances that do little for Bush. They are either truth or lies, and he will take them as they come.

“I must take her to wife.”

“Nothing will change.”

“Everything must change.”

He strokes Bush’s skin with hungry fingers, mouth feasting on Bush’s salt-cured skin. They are both slick with sweat and oil, kept to hushed voices by the ship around them. Bush bites at his lips to keep silent as Hornblower’s hand slides down over his hip, curving around Bush’s flesh and stroking him, in the same rhythmic stroke of footsteps on the white-washed deck.

They move apart and business is between them again, the task of cleaning and presenting themselves, nothing amiss in the Captain’s cabin. He shifts to a chair rather than sprawled across Hornblower’s bed, and stares down at the glass of cheap red wine his captain sets before him.

“It cannot happen again.”

There is something of a vow in Hornblower’s words, and Bush looks up at him. He is used to orders and to command, used to obeying those he admires and those he does not. It is not a task to him, but life, and even the intimate knowledge of Hornblower’s body does not change that.

“Then it will not, sir.”

Hornblower nods and clears his throat, moving to stare at something that isn’t Bush. “I wed. Tomorrow.”

“I’m well aware, sir. And I will be there at your side.”

“Yes.” Hornblower nods again and clasps his hands behind his back, tilting his head back slightly and closing his eyes. “As it should be.”

**

She is not a simpleton, no matter what Horatio’s friends, gentlemen and sailors might think. Though she has not experienced a man’s bed before, she is not so dense that she does not know her husband’s body was there, and his flesh was willing, but his mind was elsewhere. She can guess it’s location, tossed on the easy waves in port, mired in supplies and details that are nothing of married life. Of her life.

She watches him as he sleeps, restless, at her side. She had woken in the middle of the night to find him standing at the window, staring out with a longing in his eyes that she recognizes from her own glances in the mirror. She turned over, hiding her eyes from the sight, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to admit even to herself that there is something that she does not provide him.

Now though, with dawn creeping at the windows, invading their shared bed, she wonders what it is that the sea gives him that she cannot, wonders what it is that he yearns for. She closes her eyes and moves closer, taking what she can, what he will give her, and tells herself that the answer doesn’t matter. She is his, for whatever part of himself he can give her.

**

He stares out at the water, and waits until the moment when the beat of his heart aligns with the crash of the waves. He has said farewells that rang hollow in his ears, promises of love and devotion. He does love her in his way, in as much as she can inspire love in him, affection. But they were false promises of returning, when he knows that he may not, and of fidelity, which he knows he cannot hold to.

He senses Bush at his side and turns his head, nodding slightly. There is nothing untoward in the gesture, but just the acknowledgement of him feels like a weight in his stomach, pulls at his flesh in ways he has sworn to leave behind. Bush’s returned nod holds nothing improper, but something in those eyes, as grey as the sea as it churns beneath his feet, sends a flare of low heat through him.

Exhaling sharply, he paces the deck, willing his body and mind to silence, ignoring the mocking words and pulls of blood and need. He focuses instead on the low groan of the wood, the hard breath of the wind, the warm stroke of the sun. He nearly groans beneath his breath as he turns, pinning his first Lieutenant with a hard glance.

“Mr. Bush. If I could see you in my cabin?”

“Of course, sir.”

There is a shift on deck, hints and whispers of orders and despatches, of plans and positioning. He ignores them and descends, moving into the dark and dank body of the ship. It has not yet taken on the life of the sea so soon into the voyage, but he can imagine the brine and salt, knows the scents to come. He leads his way to his cabin, ducking into the too small room that seems even more so by the closed door and Bush’s over-large presence.

There is a silence that runs too long and Bush shifts slightly, his gaze never leaving Hornblower’s. Hornblower swallows and clears his throat, the sound hard and rough to his own ears. “This is not about orders, Mr. Bush.”

“Is it not, sir?”

Hornblower shakes his head. “It is about…lies.”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“I’m a married man, Mr. Bush. And as such, I have…duties. Obligations.” He nods and looks away, unable to hold Bush’s open gaze. “Much as I have as Captain.”

“Indeed.”

Hornblower turns and exhales, closing the distance between them and laying his hand on the table beside Bush, fingers splayed. Bush glances down and then sets his hand there as well, fingers fitting in the open spaces between Hornblower’s. “My job, Mr. Bush, is to enforce the rules.”

Bush looks up, the same smile he wore on deck decorating his lips. “And live by them, sir?”

“No, Mr. Bush. I find that is something I cannot do.”  



End file.
